


No One Grabbed Icarus by the Ankle and Dragged him Back Down to Earth

by Rynfinity



Series: The March of the Damned [5]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Human, Drug Addiction, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Sibling Incest, Substance Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-03 17:16:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1752554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rynfinity/pseuds/Rynfinity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In fact, if there was some way to translate his crazy fucking thoughts from inside voice to outside voice, Loki’s reasonably sure he would never see the light of day again.  Well, except through this hazy plexiglas window, maybe.</p><p>This is a direct sequel to <i>The Ground Gives Way Beneath our Feet</i> and will make the most sense read after its predecessors. </p><p>This story takes place in the same AU and timeframe as does the earlier portion of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1319356/chapters/2744344">Deconstruction</a> from <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/104813">Out of the Mouths of Babes</a>; unlike the Babes stories, this one is told from Loki's point of view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Loki settles in to his home away from home, more or less.

"I know you're too angry to want to talk to me right now," the woman says, pleasant enough without crossing the line into _revoltingly cheerful_ , “but I did want you to know I'll be here for the rest of the day. In case you do want to talk later, I mean," she clarifies. "Just ring." She points to the button on the wall - small and round, like those little lighted doorbells – above the head of his bed.

She doesn’t look like a doctor, not like any doctor Loki has ever seen before, but she claims she is one. As she gestures to the button, he notices she has short nails with black polish. He might just hate her a little less for that already. Only a little, though, and when she leaves the room (like he didn’t tell her not to, sure, but she’s a doctor – can’t she tell he doesn’t want to be alone?) he sits and seethes.

If she’s stayed, he’d be seething too, but that’s neither here nor there.

Eventually, when the worst of his mood passes (temporarily, he’s sure – he’s up and down like a fucking yo-yo right now, which is apparently okay because there’s no pressing reason _not to be crazy_ at this point) he sits up and looks around the room. Even when he first came in, cursing and flailing and _not the least bit happy_ despite how disgustingly nice and unflappable everyone seemed – seems – to be, he’d noticed the place was- well, was not at all what he might have expected.

And now this morning, in the midst of what’s clearly a sunny day, Loki has no choice but to admit (to himself, at least) that the room is surprisingly bright and interesting… especially considering how he's _still on suicide watch._ The entire longer wall to the left of the bed, floor to ceiling, sports a mural - an idyllic park scene stylistically reminiscent of Monet, because who needs a college degree to appreciate good art? - while the one to the right is still graced with its original tall, narrow windows. Sure, said windows have plexiglas in place of glass... and they don't open... and the Victorian-era rope lift mechanisms are long gone. Even so, it’s all far too _nice_ for a nuthouse and there's lots of natural light.

No ugly ceiling fixture. No cinderblock or glazed brick walls. No chipped, dirty institutional green _anything_. Anywhere.

The door doesn't look or sound secure – it, too, is in character and attractive, and it doesn't clang when it closes or hiss like an airlock when it opens - but it sure as shit is. He tested _that_ shortly after arrival, to the point someone had to come sit in here with him for a while.

The furniture, yes, is bolted down, albeit discretely. Earlier this morning, when Loki had forced his way past a comparatively mild but nauseating headache and had knelt down on all fours to inspect the whole arrangement more closely, he’d been interested – as interested as he can be just yet, considering the inside of his head is still a creepy fucking barren wasteland; they assured him he was never down quite far enough (he wasn’t _dead_ enough) to have suffered any brain damage but, regardless, his brain still feels pretty fucking damaged – to see how the hex nut mechanism managed to be both visually unobtrusive and flush with the floor. And all of it is metal, not atypically, but yet it still manages to be attractive enough reproduction Victoriana to look right at home here. There’s a painted carpet on the floor, too, somehow at once both attractive and nuthouse-suitable. And if the lovely metal bed only had normal bedding, the whole place would look a whole lot more like an upscale Bed  & Breakfast than it does an asylum.

Point of fact: It does anyway, even with the charcoal grey suicide-safe protective bedding.

Ultimately there is no denying it; his brother (whom he hates – right now and maybe forever – with enough passion to set the entire universe afire) has at least not cheaped out on him. Not like Odin (may he rot in hell for all eternity, when he finally manages to get himself there) did _last time_ , that fateful fucking summer.

 _That_ summer; the last time anyone fucking locked him up against his will. For being crazy, that is. They’d locked him up for being unlawful, too, but that’s different. Kind of. Although he’d somehow found a way to hate Thor for that, too.

However you slice it, Loki is still pretty goddamned angry.

Angry enough, even, that he finds he has to yell for a while, loudly (as best he can with the whole stupid jaw thing dragging endlessly on). Apparently screaming bloody murder is an okay thing to do here too, though, because – even though he knows full well there is a little camera in the dome in the far corner, up on the high ceiling and way out of reach – no one comes and tells him to stop.

~

Eventually, all that yelling gets boring. And his throat really hurts. So he stops.

~

After he’s had a little while to calm back down Loki runs through a simple mental inventory, because his brain feels like it needs something to do (they’ve left him a nice assortment of things to read, but reading in this part of withdrawal always makes him feel pukey. Puking with his mouth still wired seems like it would be even less fun than normal; that, plus (even before all that shrieking and roaring) his nose and throat are still sore from their recent close encounter with the NG tube. Speaking of which, note to self: ODing on oral medications is not all it’s cracked up to be, especially if you fuck it up). Therefore, no reading. Not yet.

_Where was he again?_

Oh, right, the pros:

This place is nice. Very nice. He can seriously see himself liking it here, if only the circumstances were somehow different. The big painting is especially lovely; he could lie here motionless and stare at it for ages (which is good, because it seems he’s going to be doing precisely that… although, yes, for variety he can drag his ass up and sit and look at the mural from the chair instead).

The people are nice, too, but (at least for now) he hates them on principle. Well, all but Dr. Black Nails; he only intensely dislikes her. Actually, he hates himself and is projecting. At least, Loki’s pretty sure that’s what they’ll tell him.

And, of course, he hates Thor. See: Set the entire universe afire. He hates his brother for finding him, and for saving him, and for having his fucking skinny miserable ass hauled off and locked up here. And for existing, and for being big and golden and popular and normal and not mired down in the dirty, moldering hell that is Loki’s own ugly, ugly mental landscape.

Thor might be a con, not a pro. Or hating him might be a pro, not a con. Or both. That’s all kind of funny, when he thinks about the choice of wording, and Loki bats it back and forth with himself far longer than can in any way be considered reasonable. That’s okay; he’s nutty.

In fact, if there was some way to translate his crazy fucking thoughts from inside voice to outside voice, he’s reasonably sure he would never see the light of day again. Well, except through this hazy plexiglas window, maybe.

_Antsy antsy antsy._

Oh, right. Pros:

Whatever they’re giving him during detox is nice. This is far from his first rodeo, withdrawal-symptoms-wise, and he’s giving a big, big hats off to the pharmacist here; Loki has never once been _close_ to this comfortable previously. It still hurts mentally, and he’s still fucking exhausted, but the whole business is pretty bearable all things considered. He hasn’t even felt like clawing his own skin off yet.

If they do half this well with his psych meds, there may be hope for Loki’s continued survival after all. Poor, poor civilization.

No one is making him go to therapy while he’s still feeling like shit and a half. That would undoubtedly seem like a con to all those rational people out there, like _Thor_ , but Loki’s been made to attend when he wasn’t half ready before and it just goes really fucking badly. And he’s no idiot; he knows he’s going to be dragged off – to group, to individual sessions, to basket-fucking-weaving – at some point. Nonetheless, even if it’s somehow mutually exclusive logically with _hating everyone_ , screw that. He does appreciate the breather.

That leaves the cons:

Well, uh, he’s alive. That’s not good. Maybe someday it will be good, but it sure as fuck isn’t now. How much do you have to suck to not even be able to kill yourself properly? Twice. Not an awesome record.

And, of course, he’s locked up. Pretty prison or no, he’s still _locked up_. Which is decidedly interfering with any chance he might have to correct con number one. That’s the point, he knows, but Loki is pretty sure he’s entitled to hate the shit out of the situation anyway.

He can’t think of anything else just yet.

_Huh. Right now things might be a little better than they are worse. How weird is that?_

_Yeah, pretty fucking weird._

~

As his meds – the _withdrawal sucks!_ ones, not the _stop the crazy_ ones… they’re waiting until he’s clean to do much with him there – start to wear off again, Loki suffers (or enjoys, depending) a sharp decline in- in just about everything.

The urge to cooperate, for starters.

"You can't keep me here forever against my will," he tells the nurse - a red-headed man in panda bear patterned scrubs, the name _Greg_ stitched in bright green thread above the left breast pocket - who comes in to give him the next round of _a little something to take the edge off those withdrawal symptoms._ "I know my rights." Just now Loki is simply not in the mood to be nice to anybody. Not even people who are helping him. In _panda-covered scrubs._ Which would actually be cute if he wasn’t hating everyone and everything.

"Of course not," _Greg_ concurs, easily, as though Loki hadn't given him any _attitude_ whatsoever. Not even a little bit of it. "You'll be free to leave as soon as your doctor clears you. But by that point, if we're doing our jobs right," Greg goes on, smiling in the face of what Loki knows from many, many years of practice to be an _extremely impressive death glare_ , "you'll stay because you want to."

"Don't hold your breath," Loki grumbles. “Why the fuck could I possibly ever want to stay _here_?”

"I think you’ll find we can really help you feel better," Greg tells him with a smile. "I'll see you later. Get some rest, if you’d like."

_Huh._

Loki really isn’t sure what to do in the presence of so much non-bossy confidence.

When all else fails, of course, he can always fall back on on _how angry he is with Thor._ That’s uncomplicated enough, and it keeps him occupied. Loki lies back on the bed, wrapped up in his suicide prevention blanket. and fidgets and stews and waits for the drugs kick in. Then – because there’s nothing else that needs his attention, after all; not here, not right now - he gives in and lets himself doze.

He can always go back to being endlessly hateful after a good nap, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it ain't one feeling, it's another.

To be perfectly truthful - and, by now, it should hardly come as a surprise to anyone that he very seldom is - Loki has probably missed Thor at least a little bit right from the beginning of his time here. At first, though, he'd been too busy (hating everything that lived and breathed, and) struggling his miserable way through withdrawal to admit it, let alone pay it much attention.

Even now, as his anger had crested and begun to recede, _missing Thor_ certainly hasn't escalated to the point where he's felt any need to _confess_ it to anyone.

~

The day he has to go in for his surgery - to remove the wires, and the metal pins that have been stabilizing his jaw as the broken bone healed - is an entirely different animal.

For starters, Loki freaks himself out on the drive back to the city. He hasn't yet been granted phone privileges (and was too proudly stubborn earlier to ask to make a supervised emergency call, even though he would doubtless have been granted one under the circumstances) and, despite knowing he's being pretty close to completely ridiculous, he can't shake the feeling he's going to die (yes, under _conscious sedation without narcotics_ , because god knows _that_ happens all the time) without ever saying he's sorry.

Sorry for the note, sorry for being a bad boyfriend and a worse brother, sorry for being alive and also for wishing to be dead. Right. All of which being things Thor probably _just can't wait_ to hear anyway.

Loki tries hard to hide the shaking, not to mention the tears that well up and spill over as he's looking out the van window and pointedly _not watching the landscape roll by_ , but Greg – Loki’s been taken off suicide watch now and given a little more privacy, not to mention sheets, but this is going to be a difficult process full of places he might need an advocate so they've sent his primary nurse along for the ride - has already spent more than enough time with him in the past couple of weeks to have developed quite the immunity to Loki’s Famous Fakery.

"Hey," Greg says softly from the other end of the back seat (because it’s almost like they’re actually famous; someone else is driving). "Are you doing okay?"

It's kind of a dumb question - he's _institutionalized_ , after all - and one of the particular sort Loki rarely lets go uncriticized, but he knows Greg means it in a smaller-scale way. A caring, kind way. Consequently – because he’s working hard on not behaving like he hates everyone now that he, well, doesn’t – he swallows down his usual go-to sarcastic dig and simply says "I'll be fine" instead.

He almost pulls it off, too, until Greg reaches over and pushes his hair back from his face - not a sensual gesture; a gently parental one, like Loki might have gotten from his moth- from Frigga - and asks "are you sure?"

"No," he admits on the heels of a choked little traitorous sob. "I miss my partner. I wish he was going to be there with me for this."

Greg squeezes Loki's shoulder. "We can still call him if you want to," he offers.

No. It wouldn't be right. "It's too soon," Loki says, shaking his head _no_ for emphasis. "He probably hates me. He wouldn't agree to come," _or he would, but with that same beleaguered attitude Jane broke up with_ , "and that would be worse." He sits up, squaring his shoulders with manufactured bravado. "Really. Thank you," because, again, he's come not to hate Greg after all and is trying to behave accordingly, "but I'll muddle through somehow. I'll be fine," he reiterates. Since one of them, at least, is still badly in need of convincing.

_One of them_ not being Greg, but who’s counting?

~

For a while, too, he almost _is_ okay. They let Greg sit with him in pre-op, even after they start to prep him for the procedure, and Loki is able to make use of some of the breathing techniques he'd just learned this week in therapeutic yoga to manage his (new, like he wasn't more than crazy enough already, thank you very little) anxiety around light sedation.

"I'm going to give you something in your IV to help you relax," the anesthesiologist tells him, though, and Loki abruptly finds he can't quite do it.

"No narcotics," he squawks, inadvertently knocking the doctor's hand away in his frantic rush to grope for Greg.

"No narcotics," the doctor echoes. If he's upset with Loki's idiotic reaction, he manages not to show it, and Loki thanks his one lucky star he didn't get himself a high-strung one. There's plenty of that here to go around already.

"Sorry," he starts in. "I _just_ got through detox and I'm really not interested in a repeat voyage," _just yet,_ he allows himself and himself alone.

"Got it," the anesthesiologist confirms. "And no worries," he adds, smiling and holding up Loki's hand. "It's right here on your wristband."

"I'd feel better," Loki says, trying to smile back, "if it was written right up here on my face."

"I'll be with you the whole time," the doctor assures him. "You'll be fine." He picks up the IV line and inserts the needle-less syringe in its mediport. "Now do me a favor and start counting backwards from 100," he adds, thumb slowly depressing the plunger.

Loki swallows, hard. "100," he says, trying his best to be brave. "99."

~

"So stiff," he slurs. "Whasgoingon?" Loki's own voice sounds weird, kind of slow and distorted. He _feels_ kind of slow and distorted.

"Welcome back, sleeping beauty," a voice – _not_ his own – says nearby. "It's Greg," the voice goes on, and Loki can hear him almost laughing. "You're awesome, Loki, honest. Don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise."

~

"-been through an awful lot in the past few months," Loki hears Greg saying. He's farther away, and there's a lot of background noise, and Loki has no idea how they suddenly teleported into what sounds like a completely different conversation. "It's not surprising the poor guy is having a bit of a rough time."

Just then Loki realizes all the noise he's hearing is someone _crying_. Really close by. He isn't the least bit sure what's going on, but whoever it is sounds utterly heartbroken.

~

It isn't until someone wipes his face, carefully, that Loki realizes the person bawling is _him_.

~

He doesn't understand what started it, not at all, but Loki simply cannot stop. He snuffles his way through post-op recovery, nearly managing to drown on his mandatory glass of water - through a straw, very carefully – as a consequence. He sniffles and whimpers from start to finish during a wobbly, lightheaded trip to the restroom (where Greg, probably wisely, insists that he sit even though Loki can hear himself haughtily arguing that he _isn't an invalid_ and _only has to fucking pee_ ). 

And then he full-on sobs the entire course of his wheelchair ride back to the van, barely even able to acknowledge the transporter pushing and hoisting.

~

In fact, he cries more than halfway back to their destination, stopping only when he's too dehydrated and exhausted to go on.

"What the hell is wrong with me," he mumbles when it's finally over. "Oww." Everything must be starting to wear off; his face feels like someone took a tire iron to it.

"Nothing's wrong with you, Loki," Greg says, with a faint hint of long-suffering self-restraint that leaves Loki wondering just how many times he's already asked that exact same question. "You did really well. Let's get you back to your room so you can get some rest."

In the end he doesn't need to get back to his bed for that; he can sleep in the van. Can, and does.

~

"I can walk," he grumbles - and _oww fucking oww_ , and sweet baby jesus is he thirsty - as one of the guys from downstairs rolls a wheelchair up to the van.

"Later," Greg tells him. "You _are_ paying to be pampered, after all. Enjoy."

Loki doesn't _enjoy_ , of course, but simply sitting up straight leaves him woozy. He opts to err on the side of caution and behave as instructed. For once.

~

It’s not until he’s thoroughly settled back in his room, cleaned up and saline-rinsed and dosed with liquid ibuprofen and antibiotics – because he _still_ couldn’t open his goddamned mouth far enough to take a stupid fucking pill if his pitiful, worthless life depended upon it – then tucked as comfortably as possible (which isn’t the least bit comfortably, not just now) amongst his _actual normal person bedding_ and left alone to _get some rest_ , that Loki finds himself really, really missing his brother.

If Thor was here… he would be holding Loki’s hand and helping with the mouth rinse and cuddling him close and soothing him and telling him not to cry (which, damn it all to hell, he’s doing _again_ somehow; _how_ are there this many tears in the fucking _world_ , even?).

But Thor is not here. For all Loki knows, his brother may be gone from his life forever. And of course _that_ thought only makes him cry all the harder.

~

“It’s okay,” the night nurse – not Greg – tells him. “You’re okay. The stuff they used to sedate you this afternoon… it does this sometimes. I know it’s upsetting, and I know you hurt,” he goes on, reaching over to rub gentle circles across Loki’s upper back, “but do your best to sleep. This whole business,” he says, using his free hand to wipe Loki’s eyes with a soft cloth, “should be over with before morning.”

He’s too drained to be embarrassed, even. “Can you stay with me,” Loki rasps, “until I fall asleep? Please?”

“Of course,” the nurse tells him, still rubbing. “As long as you need.”

It’s not _his brother_ but Loki’s a big boy; this is the best he’s going to get, and it will simply have to be enough.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loki 1: Therapy 0. Or maybe it's the other way around; he's not certain.

It’s inevitable. Loki knows that. He knows this was bound to happen sooner or later. That doesn’t stop him from being _really fucking annoyed._

He’s expressly not in the mood for therapy. Sadly, or frustratingly, or just plain off-pissing-ly, it seems that therapy _is_ in the mood for _him_. Today, of all days, when he would cheerfully rip the world to shreds or die trying.

~

Dr. Black Nails – her actual name is apparently Anna, according to her shirt, but that humanizes her a little too much and he’s not in the mood for _relationship-building_ , either – has probably vowed to _make a little headway with the difficult patient._

Loki, for his part, solemnly (if secretly) vows to be extra, extra difficult.

~

“Thanks, Greg! Good morning, Loki,” she says cheerfully when Greg drops him off in her- workroom, maybe. It’s not really an office per se – it has lots of soft, comfortable-looking (but somehow still in keeping with the overall Victoriana theme) furniture and a few swiss balls, but no desk or computer that Loki can see – and Loki’s not quite sure how things will _work_ here. It’s kind of like hanging out in someone’s parlor.

He nods and doesn’t speak, even though he can talk almost normally now, because he doesn’t want to be here and she might as well know it right from the start. “Please, call me Anna,” she- reminds him? It sounds like reminding. Maybe she thinks he isn’t responding because he’s forgotten her name Oh, how very, very much she doesn’t know him.

“Come have a seat,” she suggests, gesturing towards the furniture.

“No thank you,” he says, to see what she will do.

It turns out she doesn’t really do anything, except walk around behind him (and not right up in his space, either, so there’s that) and shut the door. “Privacy,” she offers, as the thing latches with a soft click. “I’m going to have a seat over here,” she continues, pleasantly enough, completing her circle and slipping neatly into one of the soft chairs, “but you’re welcome to stand if you like that better.”

That takes every last bit of fun out of the whole thing, so he does sit after all – he flops at one end of a squishy sofa, just like he would at ho- at _Thor’s_ , and then slouches so low he’s nearly horizontal. Settled, more or less, he folds his arms across his chest and waits.

“I’m getting the feeling you don’t want to be here,” Dr. Black Nails says after two or three long minutes of strained-feeling (at least to Loki; _she_ looks as calm and serene as she did when he got here) silence. It’s hasn’t really been a staring contest, because there’s no aggression in her gaze, but she’s evidently not afraid of him either. “And I’m sure you have plenty of good reasons for feeling that way, but it really is time you and I started getting acquainted.”

He narrows his eyes at her, watching her through the slits. “So, talk.”

“I’ve reviewed your file, along with everything I’ve been able to collect regarding your past treatments,” she tells him, without rising to the battle challenge at all, and Loki feels an infinitesimal slip in his own control over the conversation. “It appears that antipsychotics, at least alone, really don’t work well for you. Is that a fair assessment?”

“They make it easier for me to kill myself,” Loki says nastily. “From where I sit that’s a win.”

“I’m not sure I share your opinion there,” she says, and damned if she still doesn’t sound pleasant and calm. “But we can agree to disagree if we need to. Regardless,” she continues smoothly, “I doubt you were sent here to kill yourself more easily, so I’m going to try you on a few other things instead.”

It takes him a long beat to realize why she doesn’t go on to ask _is that okay?_ It’s nice enough here that he’s almost let himself lose sight of the Elephant In The Room; he’s _committed_. “And what if I don’t want you to,” he asks, just to be a dick. Nice façade or not she’s going to do what she wants and _he_ simply wants to hear her say it.

“Then we’ll talk,” she says, which isn’t at all what he was expecting. “But I really do want you to give a different treatment regimen a fair try before you make up your mind.”

_Make up my mind??_ “So you’re not going to force me against my will,” he says, aiming for _sarcastic_ but landing closer to _shocked._ “Seriously?”

“We’re a team, Loki,” she tells him. “Your care team here, and you. And the people in your life outside of these walls, too, when the time comes. We all need to work together to help you be successful.” She stops and studies his face for a few seconds, expression a bit pensive. “But to answer your question: I will only medicate you against your will if your immediate safety depends upon it.”

“Mine,” he says, not missing her choice of phrasing. “Not yours?”

“We can almost always protect both ourselves and our clients without going that route,” she says, which is again not what he expected. He doesn’t miss, either, how she doesn’t tack an empty “I promise” onto the end of her statement. Which is okay, because he wouldn’t believe it anyway. However you slice it, Loki knows, his life has certainly never lacked for false promises.

Then again, he notices a little belatedly, she hasn’t asked _him_ for any promises either.

~

“So, tell me about your family of origin,” she says.

Loki shrugs. “What’s to tell? You’ve _read my file._ ”

She _smiles._ “Yes, I have, but I’m more interested in your opinion just now.”

He sighs. _Fine._ “My mother’s dead, killed by my pimp. Not in that order. My father’s in Law; he’s a prosecutor. And an asshole. Also not in that order. My brother is-…” – he stalls out there, a little, because as much as he’s trying to behave flat-out _badly_ he just can’t quite badmouth Thor directly – “well, a lot of the time he’s what keeps me alive.” That’s true both literally and figuratively, and it’s more than he really meant to share, but whatever. “And then there’s me. Felon. Nutjob. Monster. Whore. But at least I’m pretty?” He smirks, which hurts his jaw a little. He keeps smirking anyway.

Still nothing. He has to hand her that; she’s amazingly unflappable. The jerkwads at the- the last nuthouse, although lumping the two places together seems increasingly ridiculous (not to mention unfair), had been much more easily shocked. And, Loki knows, he himself was rather less shocking all those years ago. Just a poor misguided teen with a mean father, a messed up sex life, and a razor. Boo hoo. “What,” he asks, a little testily, when he realizes she’s simply sitting there watching him.

“Just waiting until I have your attention again,” she says, without the _edge_ he would have given that sort of statement. “You mentioned that your brother keeps you alive. Can you elaborate?”

On one hand, he doesn’t want to talk about this… doesn’t want to face the possible repercussions. On the other, though, it’s the biggest gun in his sizeable Arsenal Of Shocking Things, and the smaller guns have all failed to deliver. “I probably should have said _kept,_ ” he amends, “because I may just have gone too far this time. This time,” he says feeling the faint squeezing burn of impending tears just behind his eyes, “I may have finally succeeded in pushing him away.”

“Have you succeeded in pushing him away before,” she asks, skipping over all of what he thought would catch her attention.

“Yes, a few times. Once by trying to kill myself, even. Before, I mean.” He sighs, a little, despite trying not to. “But I’ve always been able to lure him back.” He shows his teeth in a not-smile, knowing he is entirely not in control of the conversation and trying one last time for the upper hand. “I’m manipulative,” he points out. “It’s what I do.”

“How do you normally _lure him back_ ,” she asks, and now they’re finally getting somewhere.

Loki grins, which _hurts_. He swings for the fences, not caring what might happen. “How? I _let him fuck me_.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scary things are scary.

"I do like it," Loki admits, feeling a little shy, as the session leader comes to the back of the art studio to see how things are going and finds him up to the elbows, literally, in slick wet clay.

The guy smiles. "I'm glad," he says, simply and without gloating.

Not that gloating wouldn't be amply justified; Loki remembers his own recent, snotty diatribe about his loathing for - not to mention the utter and complete ridiculousness of - _basket-weaving and all that other feel-good hippie shit_ all too well. He cringes a little, because there’s bound to be some sort of fallout. There always is. It’s inevitable.

Nothing happens.

"It looks like you’ve got this under control,” the session leader volunteers after watching for a few moments, still smiling and pleasant. “So I’ll let you get back to it. You let me know if you need help with anything, okay?”

"Um, sure," Loki tells him, feeling like he probably – okay, yes, _really_ – should apologize but not doing it anyway. Besides, _Present Me is sorry Past Me was so rude_ is just a little more idiotic-sounding than he’s up for.

~

Working with the clay is- _satisfying_. He's had to do Arts and Crafts before, of course, but (even adjusted for any given value of _having a really bad attitude about it_ ) nothing has ever really done it for him. Something about the clay, though - the cool wetness, the way it squishes in his hands and slips between his fingers, the way he can fling it and slap it and claw it and cut it and then mush it back together and start in on it all over again - is very appealing. Surprisingly so.

~

At the end of the session, before the next group comes in, Loki watches from the doorway as one of the therapy assistants spins something - the beginnings of a vase, maybe; it's too narrow to be a bowl - on the pottery wheel. Her fingers move deftly over the wet surface, shaping and molding; the clay transforms beneath her hands _like magic_. It’s mesmerizing. He might have to ask about trying it sometime... if he can ever make it past _destroying_.

~

He stands at the big industrial half-moon sink for a very long time, foot on the controls and arms thrust under the spray, watching in silence as the clay-streaked water sluices off his forearms and hands. It swirls lazily in the basin, gradually more and more diluted. The whole mess runs nearly clear by the time it disappears down the drain.

The clay is grey-tan, almost white; even where some remains, it looks nothing whatsoever like blood. All the same, as he stands there transfixed by the sight of it, Loki's throat closes. He can’t pick up his stupid foot to stop the water; he can’t move, he can’t breathe, and it's all he can do to keep from crying.

~

"Hi, Loki," his doctor says, smiling, as she looks up from a complex wood-and-metal puzzle she's evidently been tackling. Today her polish is still black, as usual, but this particular version is slightly translucent. Each nail could be chip of obsidian. Of black glass, sharp and-... Loki takes a quick look at his own inner arm, at the _I (heart) THOR_ , and makes a game-time decision not to comment.

"Hi, Anna," he simply says instead, because he's trying to save _acting like an asshole_ for when he really feels the need to do it. Just now, he doesn't. Without waiting to be asked he takes a seat at the end of the usual sofa - the one he's chosen each time for the past three weeks - and sliiiiiides down.

"Greg tells me you've been good about taking your medication," she says, and it should sound condescending but it- doesn't, somehow. "Thank you." She waits; he can't quite manage a _you’re welcome,_ or even a _sure_ , but he does finally nod. "We’ve given it a good couple of weeks now," she continues, and he wonders - not for the first time, probably not for the last - how she keeps all this stuff in her head without having to refer back to notes. Or something. "How are you feeling?"

Loki considers for a minute or so. He's not good at honestly answering these kinds of questions, not so much because he wants to lie - while he often does, it’s pointless here - but because he's spent forever and a day trying to _tune out_ what his mind and body have been telling him. It's hard to learn to listen to all the noise again, and he isn't making what feels like impressive headway. "Better than I did with the crap they gave me last time," he says at last. "I still feel kind of- not like me, I guess?" He shrugs. "But I feel less like I'm riding a runaway train."

She nods. "Do you feel like you want to hurt yourself?"

He can feel his face getting hot, which is stupid. It annoys the living shit out of him when his body betrays him, all the more so because he’s normally not much of a blusher. _Focus,_ he orders himself. "Well, I always want to hurt myself. So, yes? But," he goes on quickly, wanting to clarify before she jumps to conclusions, "it doesn't feel _urgent_. I don't feel like I need to do it _right now_."

"Good," she says, looking genuinely pleased, which leaves him – even more stupidly – all the redder. "Are you having emotional responses when you feel you should be? I mean," she explains when he frowns at her, puzzled, "do you feel happy when you're doing something fun? Frustrated when things aren't going your way?"

He's not sure. "I- I think so?" He laughs, because he has to do something. "I guess I don't know what I should be feeling. Or when."

“Fair enough.” She nods in agreement. "That's very reasonable," she tells him. "From what you've told me so far, I'm not thinking that's something you had much opportunity to learn as a child. How's your libido?"

He _knows_ he's making a ridiculous face. "What?"

"Your sex drive. Are you finding yourself getting aroused?"

_Jesus fuck_. "I'm familiar with the term," he says a little icily, willing his voice not to catch and betray him still further. "I just wasn't expecting the question. I- um- I try not to think about that, since Thor isn't here."

"It's not really something you can think away," she says. "It's kind of like trying to think away being hungry, or needing to pee."

"Yeah, tell me about it," he says, a little too heartfelt. And then realizes he's just- well, answered the question. Oops.

"So that's a _yes_ , then?" She smiles again, not unkindly. "I'm sorry this is uncomfortable."

"It's fine," he says, with a brush-off gesture. It's kind of not but apparently it should be. "Yes," he says, and swallows his pride entirely. "Everything's been working as per usual, at least within the limited confines of my testing." He must be as red as Thor gets, and that never happens.

"Good," she says brightly. "Let's go another week on this regimen, then, and see how you feel then."

"Okay," Loki offers, trying to make this feel more like a normal conversation and less like- like middle school. Yeah, no; it doesn’t work any better than it sounds like it might.

~

Anna sets the puzzle down. "Speaking of Thor, I'd like for us to talk about your relationship a little more. Are you up for that?"

_Because I have so many choices,_ he thinks; he manages to squelch his outside voice and hold himself to an eyeroll.

Even that doesn't pass unnoticed. "Yes, Loki," she asks, and then waits patiently while he sorts through it.

Sorting takes him a while. "I keep feeling like you're going to tell me my- my thing with Thor- our relationship needs to stop."

"Do you know why you're feeling that way?" She doesn't give anything further away, not this time, but it’s a short leap from here to what she's bound to be thinking.

"It's not me projecting," he tells her, "if that's what you mean. It's just... I know you said you're not against it personally" - _I take every relationship on its own merits_ , she'd told him last week, _on a case-by-case basis. I just want you to be safe and comfortable, whatever you do choose_ \- "but so many people are. I know it would be easier for almost everyone if I elected not to pursue it further."

"Almost everyone?" Her neutral expression does nothing to conceal the fact she's watching him intently.

"Well," he blurts out, "it certainly wouldn't be easier for _me_." He folds his arms across his chest. This is singularly difficult, both the topic and the scrutiny.

She smiles, just a little, but she looks- sad overall. Sympathetic, even worried. "Considering you're the one whose opinion matters," she says, "I'm not going to lose too much sleep over what _almost everyone_ might be thinking. Now," she adds, straightening, "we do need to take into consideration the way a lot of negative outside pressure can make life more difficult. I suspect I don't really need to tell you that," she continues, laughing softly as he nods like- like _crazy_.

"And, yes, there are a fair number of things about your relationship with Thor which will undoubtedly draw that sort of negative attention,” she admits. He can list them easily enough himself: incest, homosexuality, his own questionable competence, Thor’s temper. He doesn’t. “But we can work on how to deal with that part later on. Right now," - she spreads her arms, palms in, as though she's offering a long-distance hug - "let's stick to how _you_ feel."

"Worried," Loki says, after a few moments’ reflection. He really, really is. "I haven't heard from Thor since I got here." He unwraps his arms from around his own torso, the desire – okay, yes, the compulsion – to _count off_ almost painfully strong. He ticks one finger, for that first bit. "I tried to kill myself, just when he though things were better; he told me so himself," ( _tick_ ) "and it was clear in how he was finally starting to relax" ( _tick_ , ring finger this time). “And when he had me committed, which even I know was totally understandable given the circumstances, I was not very understanding. To be precise," he clarifies, ticking off the fourth finger along the way, "I called him every name in the book, plus some I made up just for the occasion. And I spit in his face." That might warrant another finger; he ticks his thumb. His hands are shaking now, badly, so he crosses his arms again and shoves a hand into each armpit.

"What are you feeling, Loki," she asks softly.

This time he doesn't need to think anything over. "Fear," he says immediately. "I'm so afraid." _Fucking terrified,_ even.

"Can you describe what it is you’re afraid of?”

"I'm afraid I finally went too far and he's going to leave me," _for someone who isn't his brother and isn't terminally fucked up; someone normal,_ he doesn't add, because he's shaking so hard his teeth are chattering. “And if he does, I feel like I will die.” He laughs, sounding about as bad as he feels. “And when it comes to logic, how fucked up is _that?_ ”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What goes up must come down. Sometimes it bounces.

"Just say it: _Loki, you are the world's biggest fuck-up_ ," he howls in Greg’s general direction. "I know you want to." They're in one of the quiet rooms, which is nicely euphemistic for _rooms where giant fuck-ups can't really hurt themselves as long as they are accompanied by their babysitters,_ because he is having an Absolute Banner Day.

Greg gives him a cockeyed half-smile, like he has _something_ he'd love to say, but just sits- quiet. Quietly quiet.

At least one of them is _being quiet_. Loki belts out something halfway between a roar and a shriek - it makes his own ears blank out and then ring - and punches the heavy bag as hard as he can. He's no Thor - _Thor_ \- but he manages to split the skin over two knuckles just the same. It fucking _hurts_ but it isn't _enough_ ; he crumples to the floor (well, the thick padded mat that covers it... the mat that keeps people like him safe from themselves) and sprawls out face-down, pounding away with fists and feet like the world's largest toddler.

That's not enough either. Ultimately he gives up; he curls in a ball, arms wrapped tightly around himself, and digs his nails into the skin of his shoulders.

"Hey, go easy," Greg says then, voice raised over Loki's non-stop screaming. Squatting, he leans in to catch Loki's hands. "Can you dial this down a little yourself,” he asks, holding firm as Loki struggles and squirms, "or do you need some medication?"

Okay, no; even now he’s sure he doesn't want that. "Nooooooo," he wails, over the part of him that knows he's only worsening his situation by behaving like a spoiled child. Like a wild fucking animal. This is what got him punched in the face to start wi-...

_Oh_.

_Greg simply isn't going to do that, no matter what shit he pulls._

~

It's a huge, huge effort but Loki makes himself quiet down. He rolls flat on his back and lets Greg gently guide his arms to his sides. For a while he just lies there, gasping, trying to catch his breath.

Trying to ignore the tears - of rage, of frustration, of overwhelming loathing he just can't even _begin_ to place - trickling along his temples and into his ears.

" _Holy shit_ ," he says finally, at normal volume. His voice is raspy; his throat is sore. "I'm in fine form today." He tries to laugh; it doesn't work somehow.

"Bad days happen," Greg tells him, rocking back and giving him a pat on the ankle. “Chill out for a little while.”

~

"What time is it," Loki asks, finally, from where he's lying (still) flat on the mat. Whereas not long ago he'd felt completely full to the point of bursting - of exploding – with white-hot chaos, now he feels like he's been dipped in a thick coating of lead. He may just lie here forever. Until he rots away to nothing.

Or at least until he really, really has to pee.

“Hold on. Let me check.” Greg gets up with a little grunt and pads over to the door. "It's about 5:30," he says, squinting through the observation window at the clock out in the hall.

"I've kept you over," Loki says from the floor. Talking is so much effort, but he needs to get the rest out; he really, really needs to. "I'm sorry."

Greg turns away from the door and grins at him. "That's okay. You just made everything worth it."

~

"It was so stupid," he complains to the off-shift social worker, dragging a fork idly here and there through the remains of dinner. Otherwise known as: a couple of carrot circles and lots of peas. He's finally graduated back to chewing, which turns out to be surprisingly overrated. "All I've done for weeks straight is moon over how my partner has abandoned me... and then, when he finally _does_ show up, I have him sent away without so much as a _hello_." He sighs. "What _is_ my problem. No," he adds, holding up his free hand. "Don't answer that. Please."

"Did he - your partner - have a scheduled meeting with you today," she asks. If he squints, he can almost convince himself she’s doing exactly as instructed. Probably coincidence, yes – and as jokes go it was barely even funny - but it's still nice to _pretend_ he's the master of the known universe once in a while. Especially after a day like this one.

He sighs. "No. As I understand it, based on what Anna told me, he just showed up randomly." Go fucking figure. But then Thor always did tend to act before thinking.

"It _was_ a nice day for a drive," she admits. "You didn't want to see him?"

"Not today. Not- not like I was today," _and not like I’m going to be tomorrow. Not, in fact, until I am a whole fucking lot better_ , he mentally adds, _if that ever happens._ He lets his fork fall, watching a few peas make a break for it as the tines clatter against his plate. He wants to squish each nasty green ball into the tabletop with his thumb, one by one by one. He doesn't. "It wasn't one of my better days." He spreads both hands on the table, palms flat against the cool surface. "See?"

"The bag always wins," she tells him. "You'll learn."

They share a little laugh. Loki gives in to temptation and flicks a pea, sending it whirring off across the dining room with a quick snap of thumb and forefinger.

"Everyone has bad days, you know," she offers as he flicks a second pea. He's a little late for dinner, what with his _tantrum_ and all; there’s an unfortunate dearth of suitable targets. "Your partner will probably understand."

Loki rests his forehead between his arms (which, yes, means he now has squashed peas _on his face,_ but he can do that here) and heaves a huge sigh. "I hope so," he tells his own lap, and then sits back up. "In case they ever let me out of here. Think they will?" He waggles his eyebrows at her; two or three crushed peas drop back onto the plate with wet little _splats_.

She grins. "Not unless you shower."

~

He doesn't, because wallowing in his own BO simply sounds like the perfect ending to a perfectly horrible day. But he does wash his face, and he does pick a few peas out of his hair.

"Odin would be proud," he tells himself, grinning ghoulishly at his reflection in the mirror.

The mirror. Such a small thing, and yet... not. "Toto," Loki tells his dripping face, doing his very best Dorothy, "I've a feeling we're not on _death watch_ anymore."

~

"I have something for you," Anna tells him the next day – Day One, AT, for After Tantrum – "if you want it." She holds up a sheet of letterhead, neatly folded in quarters.

"And here I didn't get you anything," Loki jests, because he's feeling _better_ this morning. He's even showered without being asked to _please freshen up, Mr. Laufeyson_ , as one of the techs sometimes insists. And then he abruptly runs out of _fake_. "What is it," he asks, and he can hear his own voice shaking.

"It's a message left with reception," she says. "From yesterday. Your partner."

He stiffens. There’s no way she hasn’t read it; there are no secrets here. "Do I want to see it? I mean, _is it pleasant,_ " he corrects himself, because of course she's not really a mind-reader… even if it does feel like it sometimes. Most of the time, actually.

“I don’t think it’s _un_ pleasant,” she says. “I can read it to you first, if that’s easier,” she offers. “And if you want me to stop at any point, I will.”

That sounds safer. This is unexpectedly difficult, even considering the send-up he’s given it in his own messed-up, Thor-sick head. He nods.

She unfolds the paper carefully. “Mr. Thor Odinson,” she reads - slowly, eyes alternating between the page and Loki’s face - “would like Mr. Loki Laufeyson to know the following: that he was here, and that he loves Mr. Laufeyson very much.”

“Jesus,” Loki says, laughing to keep from crying. “It sounds he wants to come sit in my parlor and be my _gentleman caller_.”

She smiles, refolding the note and passing it over. “You’ve never been up to reception, have you,” she confirms.

“I’m strictly a locked ward kind of guy,” he tells her, shaking his head _no_. “Why?”

“Oh,” she says, still smiling, “it’s just that you have no idea how _right_ you are.

~

“I’ve got a _what_ , Loki asks, like the tech has three heads, because maybe she does. She’s holding up a picture of a lighthouse, set on an attractively landscaped hill. She claims it’s for him. Still, it isn’t possible.

“A _postcard_ ,” she repeats, nicely. Everyone here is so incredibly patient. Sometimes it’s lovely and sometimes he wants to slap each and every one of them. Sometimes those two _sometimes_ are thirty seconds apart.

“A postcard.”

“Right,” she says, checking the back. “From Thor Odinson.”

Again, it isn’t possible. To the best of Loki’s knowledge, Thor has never sent a single postcard in his life. Certainly not to Loki, and likely not to Sif, either; Thor still lived at home in The Sif Days and he didn’t so much as take a shit without discussing it with his brother first. Maybe Jane, sure, but even that seems highly unlikely. “Give it here,” he demands, grabbing for it.

“You’re welcome,” she says as he practically rips the thing out of her hand,

“Sorry,” he tells her, because none of this is about her. “Thank you.”

~

It _is_ from Thor. All it says is _I love you, baby_ , but that’s more than enough to bring tears to Loki’s eyes and his heart into his throat. He cradles the card against his chest for a long, long time.

~

_This whole postcard business,_ as he terms it in the privacy of his own head, quickly becomes a regular thing, until nearly the entire surface of the short back wall (in his usual room, the one Loki occupies when he’s not _a danger to himself and others_ ) is papered with them. He likes the seascapes best, but every picture is- heartfelt and pretty.

Okay, that first bit is a lie. He likes Thor’s _little notes_ best.

Loki asks Anna to share that part with Thor, when she talks to his brother. “I love him so much,” he insists, every time. “I- I’m just not ready for him. Not yet.”

“It’s okay,” she (always) tells him. “He assures me he understands.”

Privately, Loki highly doubts his brother understands at all. Even so, it’s nice to know Thor’s still out there in the big world, _trying._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, there's no way to avoid addressing the elephant in the room.

"Do we really have to do this now?" Loki knows he must seem... whiny, probably. Irritable. He doesn't care, at least not enough to _stop with the attitude_. "I don't want to think about getting booted out of here already. And, yes," he adds, holding up a hand, "I do realize how that sounds coming from the same person who spent his first week here telling anyone who would listen that _you can't make me stay and I’d like to fucking see you try_." He can't help but laugh at himself, at least a little. "I guess I don't like change, as much as I might pretend otherwise."

"Most people don't," Anna agrees, laughing with him. "But, yes. Our goal is always to return our clients to the community, in the best shape and to the best living environment possible. That takes a lot of work and planning," she explains, "which means it can also require a lot of time. So, never fear: there’s no booting-outing imminent." She watches him for a minute. "Okay, so it's not _really_ the idea of leaving that's the problem, is it?"

He squirms. It isn't. He knows what has to be coming and he doesn't like it. "So," he says, sidestepping her question, "what do we need to plan?"

"Loki, Loki," she says, shaking her head and laughing.

He could be all _what?_ about it - wide-eyed and innocent - but he knows from past experience that simply won’t fly. He sighs. "Sorry. What did you want to say to me?"

Sure enough, too: "You came to us recovering from a serious facial injury,” she says, leaning in a little. “Your past records indicate that you had been brought to the emergency room by ambulance, accompanied by a female friend who believed you had been assaulted." She frowns, just slightly; he frowns right back at her. "Even once you would otherwise have been physically and mentally able to do so’” she goes on, “it seems as though you expressly weren't willing to identify or press charges against your assailant. All true so far?”

Loki feels- sick. He clutches his hands together in his lap to hide the shaking. To keep from wrapping himself in a tight bear hug and giving too much away. "That's right. The situation- what happened was my fault," he says firmly. "There was no reason to get anyone else in trouble." There still isn’t.

"I'm going to float a theory," she offers - warns him, maybe? - "and then we can talk through how you feel about it."

He nods, trying to compose his face into something like neutral interest. Probably not very like it, given how his heart is hammering. "Shoot."

"I think Thor hit you," she says, and then goes on despite- despite how Loki's mouth gapes open. "You shouldered – are still shouldering, actually - the blame because you believe you baited or pushed him into doing it, in much the same way you sometimes try with the staff here." She stops and studies him closely. "So, that’s my theory. Before we discuss what happened any further: what are you feeling?"

He genuinely tries, but he- he can't. "Overloaded," he tells her, finally. "Short-circuited?" He is. His brain has both everything and nothing going on, all at the same time. His chest is tight; he’s shaking everywhere now, not just his hands. It’s awful.

"Fair enough," she concedes. "Let's try taking it one piece at a time, then." He cringes, thinking back to where she’d started, but Anna actually jumps in at the other end instead. "Do I have the part about baiting the staff right," she asks. "I think you've mentioned that before."

"Yes," Loki says, nodding through a couple of deep breaths. "I have a habit - my treatment team would call it a bad habit, I'm sure," he interjects, laughing a little on the heels of another breath, and he does feel marginally more in control again, " - of manipulating people into hurting me." He shrugs. "Sometimes hurting myself gets boring,” _but that doesn’t mean the need to hurt goes away, unfortunately,_ he elects to leave unsaid. For now, at least.

She nods. "Has it ever worked here?"

It hasn't. Not once. Not even close; he shakes his head an emphatic no.

"And is that because you lost your magical manipulative powers the moment you crossed our threshold?" She smiles, for just a second, as she says the bit about the powers.

"Maybe," he tries, laughing. "No, then," he corrects himself as she cocks an eyebrow. "Although I'm fairly certain my techniques work best on those with whom I share the most history."

_Fuck._ That was a nice slip, there. _Way to go, bright boy._

"There's some truth to that, I'm sure," Anna tells him, not calling him on his mistake. "But why else might it not have happened?"

Loki sighs. "Because it's not allowed."

She nods. "And why, overlooking the legal ramifications for the present moment, do you think that could be?"

Hmm. Loki searches for the truest answer that won't get him in trouble somehow. There isn't one. "Oh, I don't know," he says crossly. "It sets a bad example?"

He expects her to laugh, or roll her eyes, or even chastise him gently on how he's _just not putting in the effort._ Instead, she looks concerned. "Part of helping our clients heal is providing them a safe environment," she says. "The physical environment itself is a piece of that, sure, but we also need to keep everyone as safe as possible from human harm.”

He smiles, more or less. "I _have_ noticed it's pretty tough to buy a fix here."

Anna doesn't laugh. "It's much broader than that, though. We can only keep you safe as long as we're not engaging in your patterns. In English, that means-."

Oh no no she doesn’t. He doesn't want to hear it. "Yeah, I know what it means _in English_ ," he cuts in, more than a little too sharp. “I do.” He fights not to get up and leave.

"-we can't react to your emotions or behaviors by attacking you, in any way," she finishes anyway.

At that he does stand. "He didn't do anything I didn't ask for," he says, hotly. "He didn't do anything wrong." Wait, what's that bit she always says? Oh, right: "He did the best he could given the information he had available to him at the time," he parrots, trying and failing to sound a little less defensive.

She finally smiles again, albeit briefly. "Now that's probably true. Look," she offers, standing as well. "I won't beleaguer the point, as I've obviously pushed you a little too hard today.” She reaches out as if to touch his arm, but stops short. “I’m sorry about that,” she adds. “I just want you to think about how important feeling safe is to healing. Okay?"

He nods; one sharp, businesslike head snap.

"Thank you," she says. "Do you need to leave?"

Loki mulls that over for a while, digging his sock-clad toes into the rug nap. He takes a deep breath. "Not if we can talk about something else," he grants, because he’s being ridiculous.

When she assures him that's fine, he flops back down.

~

"Have fun?" When he just looks at her, puzzled, Anna points. "You have clay on your forehead."

Loki reaches up to touch his own face. Sure enough. "I do. And I did," he admits. He feels relaxed. Almost peaceful. It’s kind of an odd way to feel, actually, considering he’s here for therapy

"You look as though you did," she says. "Not just the smudge" - she gestures broadly, a whole-arm sweep up from toe to head - "but all of you. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you looking so tranquil." She sounds sincere. Pleased. Even after all this time here he's still a little taken aback when his happiness makes someone else happy. "So," she starts in, changing gears, "I have what I hope might be good news for you."

"Go for it," he tells her. It's hard to panic and freeze up properly when he's still all floaty from the time he’d spent playing with the clay. He sits on the sofa, slouching down a little less than usual, and folds his hands loosely in his lap.

“Thor was here today,” she starts, and that flips the switch: Loki snaps to attention.

“What?” He _knows_ he didn’t turn his brother away this time. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?!”

“He had to come meet with your treatment team as part of our planning process,” she explains, calm and quiet. “This was a preliminary screening session. It’s quite tightly proscribed; he wasn’t given the option of seeing anyone besides your care providers.”

It’s nice of her not to rub his face in the fact that he’s still hell-bent on refusing visitors, but nevertheless: _Thor_. So close Loki could nearly taste him. “Oh,” he says, because he doesn’t trust himself to say anything further.

She smiles. “ _So where’s my good news?_ Is that what you’re wondering?”

Loki laughs. “I’ve lost my poker face, haven’t I?” He’s so hopeless. “Maybe?”

“I still wouldn’t want to risk playing against you,” she assures him. “But, yes, we haven’t gotten to the good news. Here you go: Thor gave me permission to tell you that he’s in intensive counseling now, working on mastering his temper. Voluntarily,” she adds, “with no prompting on our part at all.”

He’s not quite sure that’s good news, but he’s supposed to smile – he can read it in her face – and so he does.

“Take my word for it,” she says, not falling for his act (yet again). “You’ll consider it good news someday.”

~

They do talk about other things, on and on, but Loki ultimately can’t get his head back in the game. He’s fidgety and spacy and off thinking about _Thor, so close_.

Finally he gives up; he swallows hard and _says the thing_ , right in the middle of what had long since become a completely unrelated conversation: “I think I want to see him. Thor, I mean,” he clarifies, since from where Anna sits this has all got to be coming straight the fuck out of nowhere. “Next time he’s here.”

When she says nothing, he nods to her. To himself. “In fact,” he amends, decisive, “I’m sure I do.”


End file.
